"How boss! Good girl Bebe Bennett dons her best Jackie Kennedy suit as she tracks down a murderer—just a little detour as the naive Virginia darling moves to Manhattan. Think 60s! Think bangs and a flip! Think That Girl! meets Miss Marple and you'll have a ball."
—Jerrilyn Farmer, author of Mumbo Gumbo
"Add a dab of Dippity-Do, a pinch of That Girl! and a dash of Miss Marple, and you've got the makings for a groovy new series that cozy mystery lovers will fall head over heels for. It's a Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod Murder and ingenue sleuth Bebe Bennett are a blast from the past!"
—Susan McBride, author of Blue Blood
"Groovy, baby! Rad, cool, far-out, and, oh yes—deadly." —Kasey Michaels, author of Maggie Without a Clue
A SWINGING SUSPECT
My heart was pounding in my chest. Darlene should not be leaving New York City. "But the police told Darlene and me not to leave town," I said to Stu.
Darlene waved a hand. "The Hamptons are still New York. They don't count. Stu, you're a dreamboat." She hurried from the room.
Stu grinned at me and began packing up pizza remains and his tablecloth, humming Elvis's "You're the Devil in Disguise."
I walked into the kitchen and picked up one of the candy cigarettes. Pretending to smoke it, I considered the matter of Philip Royal's death. The police were way too ready to pin the crime on Darlene, and her solution was to frolic in the Hamptons with Stu. Yes, I decided right then, there was only one person who was going to be able to get to the bottom of this murder investigation.
Me.
I inhaled too hard and choked when the candy hit the back of my throat. . . .
IT'S A MOD, MOD, MOD, MOD MURDER
A MURDER-A-GO-GO MYSTERY
ROSEMARY MARTIN
®
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2005 10 987654321
Copyright © Rosemary Stevens, 2005 All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
This book is dedicated to Alana Zoe Stevens, born February 11, 2004. May you find peace and happiness in this world, princess!
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the creative vision of my editor, Ellen Edwards. Ellen, I am forever grateful for the day at Malice Domestic when we talked and the idea for this series was conceived. You then went a step further, helping me form the fun world of Bebe and Darlene. Thank you! I'm so glad to finally be working with you.
To my agent, Harvey Klinger.
To my friend, Donna Andrews, award-winning author of the Meg Langslow mystery series and the Turing Hopper mystery series, I owe a great debt. Brainstorming with you made the process of creating this story hilarious. I've learned so much from you. Thank you.
I also want to thank Melissa Lynn Jones for reading over the final manuscript. I promise I'll try harder with the commas.
To Chakkri, the best cat ever, for sitting on my lap while I wrote this book. I miss you since you passed away from cancer on March 16, 2004, and I think I always will.
Finally, I appreciate the love and kindness of my family: Tommy (even though he said "Get out of My Way" sounded like a bad Kelly Osbourne song!), I love you so much. And Rachel, who brought me such joy this year, I love you and Alana. I am a very blessed woman.
CHAPTER ONE
New York City April, 1964
I never dreamed when I met Darlene, a stewardess on my flight to New York City, that her showing me around town would include our finding a dead body. Although it was hardly Darlene's fault, no matter what the police suspect. It just doesn't make sense. Why would Darlene want to kill pop star Philip Royal? After all, on a flight over from London, she and Philip had joined the Mile-High Club.
"You mean you got together with a group of people who'd all been to Denver, the Mile-High City?" I had asked.
Darlene looked at me funny, then whispered in my ear. My eyes grew wide. Frankly, I was shocked. Then skeptical. To tell the truth, I still don't believe Darlene would do that. I think she's exaggerating. In the month I've been her roommate, she's often tried to amaze me with the details of a stewardess's fast life. But I'm not buying it. I'm sure Darlene's a nice girl, like me. Besides, some of her stories just don't ring true. Really, how could two people fit into an airplane lavatory?
We stood in the groovy plush gold-and-brown lobby of the Legends Hotel on Sixty-eighth Street near the park. I was thrilled to be there. To tell the truth, I'd been in a perpetual state of excitement and optimism since I'd arrived last month in the city of my dreams.
Looking around eagerly, I remembered that the hotel boasted a clientele that included political bigwigs, pop stars, and even movie stars. I'd read once in a movie magazine that Burton and Taylor had trysted at the Legends!
The snobby desk clerk kept glancing our way and turning up his nose, as if he knew we couldn't afford the hotel's prices. I turned my back on him. Nothing was going to spoil my fun.
"Bebe, you look so boss in that Jackie Kennedy suit."
"Do I, Darlene? I mean, this is my first date since moving to New York. I'm worried that I look like a fuddy-duddy in this lavender outfit, especially when I'm supposed to be going out with the lead guitarist of Philip Royal and the Beefeaters!" I almost squealed, I was so excited.
"You're putting me on, Bebe. You look like you could be Mario Thomas's cousin. Keith will take one look at those big brown eyes and fall at your feet. Believe me, I know men."
"That's what you're always telling me," I said.
Darlene pulled out a compact. She patted her short, teased red curls and examined her face. Darlene had freckles, but she carefully covered them up with foundation and Erace. She said men liked a flawless complexion on a woman. Frankly, I didn't see why any man would object to Darlene's freckles when she had the most fabulous figure, all curves, not like me with my flat chest and narrow hips.
The first night I moved into her apartment on East Sixty-fifth Street, we talked late into the night about the beauty tips Darlene learned in stew school. I picked up a lot from her, especially how to keep false eyelashes from crawling down into your eye. And how women who favored the beehive could wrap their hair in toilet paper at night to protect their coif. Darlene claimed to be an
expert with Dippity-Do. She showed me how to use the gel to keep the ends of my hair flipped up.
We chattered away until we both fell asleep, exhausted, around three in the morning. I was so happy to have met someone with such a cheerful, friendly personality who needed a roommate.
Luckily Darlene had a late flight out the next day. She kept an odd schedule with the airline. And my job as secretary at Rip-City Records didn't make it cool for me to stay up until the wee hours.
"Bebe, put on a little more lip gloss. Philip and Keith will be down here any minute. In fact," she said, tapping one red pump impatiently on the floor, "they are late."
I pulled out my own compact and a black daisy pot of pearlescent pale pink Mary Quant lip gloss. Darlene had brought one for each of us on her last flight to London— the trip where she met Philip. I touched up my lips and checked that my thick black eyeliner wasn't crooked. My false eyelashes were glued in place, just the way Darlene taught me. My bangs were straight; my dark hair was teased back and fell to my shoulders, where the ends flipped up. I was ready for Keith. My heart took a tumble at the thought of going out with an English guy. Of course, he wouldn't be John, my favorite Beatle, but he'd be the same clean-cut type with a cute accent.
"Listen, Bebe," Darlene said, looking at her watch, "I'm going down the hall to the house phone and calling Philip's room to see what's taking so long."
"How do you know what room he's in?"
"You don't have to know the room number. You just ask for the person's room. Anyway, I told you. We're a couple. I saw him to the hotel this morning when we flew in." She winked at me. "I stayed long enough to see him settled in."
"Whatever you say, Darlene."
Darlene giggled and patted my hand. "Stay here, and I'll be right back."
"Do you think I have time to go to the coffee shop and get a Tang? I'm thirsty." Looking around, I encountered the nasty glare of the desk clerk. I noticed he had a large brown mole on his right earlobe. I held back a snicker. The mole looked like an earring. The thought of a man wearing an earring made me want to laugh out loud.
Darlene said, "Better not go for a drink. With any luck we'll be on our way to the Peppermint Lounge within five minutes. We'll have a great time there doing the twist and having cocktails with the guys."
I chewed my bottom lip. I wasn't much of a drinker. Okay, back home in Richmond, Virginia, I'd had wine occasionally, but cocktails were a different story. I'd had a couple of highballs at the Christmas party for Philip Morris, where I worked in a boring job at the time. They made me feel all fuzzy.
I straightened my shoulders. This was in New York! Everything would be different here. People in New York didn't behave like they did in Richmond. Not that I didn't like my hometown, but the idea of being a single woman in the big city was ten times more exciting.
I walked with Darlene as far as the elevators, then watched her go down the long hall, past the coffee shop, and around a corner. A man coughing next to me caught my attention. He was an older gentleman dressed in the uniform of an elevator operator. I dug in my lavender purse once again.
"Here, sir, would you like a Smith Brothers cough drop? I keep them in my purse because my work requires me to answer the phone. If my voice gets scratchy, I use one of these."
The man looked at me suspiciously. "You're not from around here, are you?"
I smiled. "I'm always surprised by the number of people who say that to me. My boss, Br—I mean, Mr. Williams, says it's because I have a slight Southern accent. If you don't want the cough drop, I have a roll of those new Fancy Fruit Life Savers in here somewhere."
"No, the cough drop will do me fine. Thank you, miss." He accepted the lozenge and popped it into his mouth. "You want me to take you upstairs?"
"No, I'm waiting for a friend."
"I see."
"We're meeting dates for the evening, and they're late, so my friend went to call and find out where they are."
"Stood up, huh?"
"Oh, no! I'm sure it's nothing like that. The guys are probably adjusting to the time change. They're from England." I chatted with the elevator operator, who turned out to be a Mr. Duncan, about his family (wife, three children, and seven grandchildren) until finally Darlene came back around the corner. She looked flustered but gorgeous in her red A-line dress.
"There was a lady ahead of me at the house phone. She wouldn't stop talking. I had to wait forever. Then Philip didn't answer his phone. Let's go up there."
"Darlene!" I put a restraining gloved hand on her arm. "We can't just go up to a man's hotel room. It wouldn't be proper."
"Bebe, you're being prudish, living up to your real name," Darlene said, just like an older sister. She was twenty-five to my twenty-two.
You see, my mother, a true Jane Austen fan, had taken advantage of marrying a man with the last name of Bennett and had named me Elizabeth after the main character in Pride and Prejudice. Being a thoroughly modern woman, I had gone by Bebe since I turned twelve.
"There is nothing wrong with what we're doing," Darlene went on, "Besides, I'm from Texas. Where I come from we don't put up with men not doing what they say they're gonna do. We take action!"
"I don't know. . . ."
Darlene sneezed. Oh, no. Darlene always sneezed when she got nervous or upset. In another minute her mascara would run. Maybe one of her false eyelashes
would droop despite the glue. I gave in. "You're right. I'm sure this is the way they do things in New York." I hesitated. "As long as we stand outside the door and don't go into the room, I'm game for anything."
"Sure, Bebe, sure," Darlene said.
With Mr. Duncan frowning, we stepped into the elevator car. Darlene said, "Fifteenth floor."
We stopped on the fifth floor.
Puzzled, Darlene and I turned as one to the elderly man. He said, "Aren't you getting out?"
Realizing he had a hearing problem in addition to his cold, I raised my voice loud enough for him to hear, but not enough for him to think I was shouting at him, and said, "I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding, Mr. Duncan. We wanted the fifteenth floor."
He closed the doors and punched the number fifteen. I exchanged a look with Darlene, one that pleaded for her not to say anything. She was quiet, and a few seconds later we reached our destination.
"Take care of that cough now," I said as we exited the elevator.
"Come on, Bebe!"
I followed Darlene down the hall, where the faint sounds of Betty Everett telling us "It's in His Kiss" seeped out from one of the rooms, until we came to stand in front of room 1514.
"Darlene, the door is open a crack," I whispered.
Darlene's hand hung suspended alongside the door where she was about to knock. Slowly she lowered it to the knob. "Well, so it is."
Before I could protest, she swung the door wide open and marched inside. "Philip Royal, you'd better tell me right this minute why you've been keeping us waiting!"
I had just crossed the threshold behind her when Darlene screamed.
Darlene raced back and plowed into me.
"My goodness, Darlene! What is it?" I said when I was steady on my feet again.
"Philip." Darlene sneezed violently.
"He's not with another woman, is he?" I asked. Then I blushed at having such a thought. But didn't all pop stars lead wild lives?
Darlene sneezed again. She took me by the arm and led me to the open bathroom door. In the full bathtub lay a man with an electric guitar across his chest and a towel over his face.
I turned away quickly. "He's naked!"
"He's dead!"
I raised my hands in the air as if to ward off a blow. "What?" We both turned away to escape the sight, and bumped into each other in the bathroom doorway.
"He must have been electrocuted." Sneeze. Sneeze.
"Are you sure it's Philip? He has a towel over his face."
"Grits and damnation, it's got to be him."
"You mean you can't tell by his . . . his . . ."
Darlene frowned. Then sneezed. "I'm not sure. The lavatory was dark when we . . . you know ... on the airplane, and I didn't really look at it."
I thought about this for a second, feeling it was more proof that Darlene had made up the whole story of her
and Philip doing that. "We'd better take the towel off his face and be sure, Darlene."
"I guess so."
"You do it. He was your boyfriend."
"What a crummy thing to have to do. I've only known him a day." Darlene hesitated. Then, "All right, Bebe."
Darlene inched across the bathroom tile and reached in gingerly with thumb and forefinger extended to the very tip of the washcloth covering the dead man's face. With the flash of a magician, she whipped it off and let out a shriek. "It's him." She began to cry. "What a horrible accident."
Standing in the bathroom, I held her while she sobbed, trembling myself. I had never seen a dead body before, except for my great aunt. And she'd been dressed in her casket, not naked in a tub full of water with a guitar in her hands.
Since I was averting my eyes from the naked dead man in the tub, I finally noticed the bathroom wall. We'd been so shaken up with the horror of finding Philip, we hadn't taken in our surroundings.
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